Sigh No More
by Elenothar
Summary: John discovers that Sherlock was bullied harshly as a child. He isn't quite sure what to do with that, but Sherlock  for once  helps him out by being his usual self.


**Title: **Sigh No More  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Beta: <strong>The amazing_ interjection_  
><strong>CharactersPairings: **Sherlock, John (Gen)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>bullying  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Nope.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~ 1500  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I don't own anything.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Written for the Make me a Monday prompt _John discovers that Sherlock was bullied harshly as a child_.  
><strong>General Notes: <strong>First posted fanfic in _a long time_ and my first foray into the awesomeness that is the _Sherlock_ fandom. REVIEWS ARE LOVE!

Sigh No More

Exiting the main building of Brambletye School with Sherlock, John can't help but wish he were back at Baker Street. The murder case they're investigating – that of a nine-year old boy - is more depressing than usual and his cravings for a cup of tea (or two or three) have been steadily worsening over the last hour.

Sighing, he huddles deeper into his flimsy jacket. (He's been thinking about buying [a proper winter coat for weeks, but somehow he hasn't gotten around to it). He follows Sherlock, who is already striding through the courtyard, appearing impervious to the chill in his dramatic black coat. John suspects that even if his friend were cold, he probably wouldn't show it.

As if on cue, he calls, "John, come on! We have a schedule to keep to!"

"If you hadn't taken so long with that teacher, we wouldn't be having this problem," he calls back exasperated, rolling his eyes – but he matches Sherlock's speed nonetheless.

He's caught up completely when he notices properly that Sherlock's standing still.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze is focused on a group of children, playing at the edge of the court yard. Eventually, he moves, approaching them slowly.

"Just a minute, John…' he calls, an unusual edge to his voice.

Confused - and wondering if this has something to do with the case -John follows him over. It's only when they're about three meters away that he notices what has probably caught Sherlock's attention in the first place.

The loose group of children is actually a ring, and they're circling viciously around a smaller boy in the middle. The poor sod looks very far from content, crying quietly, his head down, face pink and blotchy.

"That's enough!" Sherlock says sharply. One boy looks at him standing stern and tall in his long, dark coat, and the kids scatter – the usual reaction Sherlock tends to get from anyone beneath the age of, say, fifteen.

John watches, fascinated, as Sherlock helps up the sobbing child, even muttering brief, consoling words to him. There's something gentle in his motions, and a strange tenderness in his face that John is hard pressed to look away from, if only for a second.

"It's alright, they're gone," Sherlock is saying quietly. His voice is gentler than John has ever heard it. John can only stare as his friend bends down to offer the boy a tissue, looks the boy in the eye for a long moment, and nods.

"Just keep your head up. It _will _get better."

John isn't even ashamed to admit that he is probably slightly slack-jawed at Sherlock deigning to help a child from something that isn't a life-or-death situation at that point. By the time Sherlock has said something that even he can't possibly be sure is the truth, and for consolation, no less, he's sure he's fully gaping.

He doesn't mention the 'emotion incident', as he privately calls it, for the rest of the week. That's partly because even after a more than a year of living together he still isn't quite sure how to approach Sherlock when it comes to personal matters, and partly because he spends most of the time too exhausted from running around for three days with very little sleep to even consider starting a prolonged conversation. He muses privately that he really should tell Sherlock that he isn't getting any younger, that they should slow down a bit, but of course he never will because he honestly doesn't know how to live without the thrill of adrenaline in his veins anymore, and he is fairly sure he doesn't want to.

Nevertheless he's entirely unsuccessful in trying to put the event out of his mind completely, which is why the evening finds him sitting in his armchair, a little tense and wondering how to best broach the topic.

After nearly half an hour of silence between them, Sherlock, who is sprawled all over the sofa as usual after a case, finally sighs loudly in annoyance.

"Yes, John?"

He jumps slightly, jolted out of his own thoughts. "What?"

Sherlock is gazing at him with one of his piercing looks. He feels vaguely like a body on a slab under the force of that look, and it's not a pleasant sensation.

"You've been sitting strangely for the last twenty seven minutes and you keep sneaking looks at me when you think I'm not looking. So what is it you want to ask me?"

"Erm…" is John's admittedly not so tactful reply to that. He coughs a little awkwardly.

"Yeah, I just wanted to ask you about that thing in the schoolyard. I'm curious, I guess."

Sherlock's gaze, if even possible, sharpens some more. "Curious?"

"Yes," John mutters, distinctly feeling that the conversation isn't going quite like he planned, as usual.

"It's just…you don't usually show that much emotion. And you're not normally that…nice. To anyone. Especially not children."

Something unreadable hardens the consulting detective's grey eyes. For a moment he looks like he's considering whether or not to answer John's question at all.

Eventually he offers a curt reply, though with obvious reluctance.

"I'm not particularly fond of bullies, John."

"Yeah, but why intervene now? We see nasty sorts every day, with what we do," John notes, but he's careful not to seem too pushy. It's a rare enough event for Sherlock to open up at all, even to him.

"Does there have to be a special reason?"

John raises an incredulous eyebrow. "With you, _yes_. You have a reason for everything, Sherlock."

"Point taken," Sherlock agrees, his lips curling up slightly at the edges. A second later, though, his impassive mask is back in place.

"I suppose if you really want to know…I was bullied at school."

He shrugs. "It's really not important. I was always different – never really minded that. They were just envious of my superior intellect."

John stares at him for a moment, caught completely wrong-footed. Now that he thinks about it, it does make a horrifying amount of sense. He can easily picture a young, gangly Sherlock being picked on for deducing things, for knowing too much – in short, for being himself. The thought alone awakens a slightly sick feeling in his stomach, but that in itself is nowhere near as bad as the flat, nonchalant way Sherlock mentioned it.

"It's not important?Sherlock…" he starts, but Sherlock cuts him off, visibly irritated.

"John, don't make this into a bigger issue than it really is. It was a long time ago, and even then I didn't care much."

"No child should go through something like that…" John says quietly. Almost involuntarily he finds himself adding, "…especially not you."

The force behind his words isn't lost on Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, and once again his voice is uncharacteristically gentle, "you can't save everyone. Besides, I'm hardly traumatized."

Even as angry as he is, John can't help but grin a little. "No, you probably aren't. But I don't believe that it was as easy as you're making it out to have been to cope with that as a kid. Even for _you_, Sherlock."

Sherlock's nonchalance is undermined by the serious cast of his face. "That is true, but I had my violin and my experiments. Not to mention the knowledge that, in every way that counted, I was better than them."

"And I bet you told them that every day," John mutters, half exasperated, half fond.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Naturally. I conducted quite a lot of impromptu experiments as to how fast an average eight to ten year old starts hitting someone cleverer than him."

"You would," John snorts, then sobers. "Did you ever tell Mycroft?"

Now it's Sherlock's term to look shocked, if only at John's amazing lack of intelligence – _again_. "Have you learned nothing about us, John? Of course I didn't tell him."

Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. "Besides Mycroft is hardly stupid. If he'd wanted to have known about it, he would have. For all that he was away at University at the time, my _concerned_ brother always made a point of being well-informed about events at home.

John supposes there's nothing much he can say to _that_, but his hand clenches on the armrest anyway. Sherlock's gaze flickers from his face to his hand, back to his face. His lips twitch.

"If you want to take a swing at my brother, I'm sure something could be arranged."

John grins in return. "That sounds satisfying, but I'd rather not end up dead in a ditch somewhere because Anthea took offence at it."

"I would protect you," Sherlock offers with a definite air of magnanimity, but there's something real, something warm in his gaze.

John nods. "I know."

For a moment there's a companionable silence. Then Sherlock prompts, "Hand me my violin."

Sighing - some things really never change - John gets up and presses the violin and bow into Sherlock's hands.

Watching Sherlock tune up his beloved instrument, John casts about for the right words to articulate his thoughts. He finally settles on, "I just want you to know that if you ever want to talk about it, or about anything really, I'm here."

Sherlock slowly looks up from the strings. There is a small smile on his face. "I know, John," he says simply.

And it's enough.

FIN


End file.
